PROLOGUE

Twelve years ago

HER FATHER POUNDED violently on her bedroom door, and Fiona jerked. A drop of hot solder fell onto her hand, and the sudden, intense burn made her bite her lip to keep from crying out.

“What are you doing in there, Fiona?”

Sucking on her burned skin, she waited until she knew she could keep her voice steady. “I’m working, Dad.”

The doorknob rattled. The latch she’d installed held tight. “How did you lock this door? Open it right now, or I’ll take it off its hinges again.”

Ignoring him, ignoring the throbbing blister already forming, Fiona turned off the soldering iron and carefully set it on its stand on her desk. She put the pieces of jewelry she’d been working on into her tackle box, then slipped the padlock onto the box and snapped it in place.

She drew back the bar latch she’d put on her door and opened it slowly. Her father stood there in his tweedy suit, glaring at her, his eyes cold and his mouth hard. “What have I told you about locking your—”

“Excuse me,” she said, pushing him aside when he didn’t move. “I need to use the bathroom.”

Once inside, she collapsed onto the edge of the bathtub. She let cold water run over the raised blister on her hand until the pain subsided to a dull throb.

Maybe if she stayed in here long enough, he’d go away.

Even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it was a foolish hope. Squaring her shoulders, taking a deep breath, she stepped into the hall.

Her father was gone.

Thank God.

She hurried into her room and stopped abruptly when she saw him on the floor, trying to open her tackle box.

“What are you doing?”

He stood up, brushing off his pants, smoothing back his carefully arranged hair. “Why did you lock your door?” he asked. Her father had always believed that a good offense was the best defense. “What have I told you about that?”

“It’s my room, Dad. I don’t like you coming in without knocking. Without asking.”

His expression darkened. “This is not your room. This is my house, Fiona. I can go wherever I want in my house.”

She lifted her chin, tucking her hair behind one ear with a shaking hand. “You think it’s all right to walk in on me while I’m getting dressed? Is that what you want?”

His face reddened. “Of course I don’t. That’s an ugly thing to say.”

Fiona shrugged, her heart pounding, her palms sweating. “What am I supposed to think when you say you want to walk into my room whenever you feel like it?” She wiped her hands on her jeans. “It would make a nice story for that reporter who keeps calling about that stupid prize you won.”

Enraged, he took a step toward her. “Stupid prize? You’re calling the Pulitzer for fiction stupid?”

She was going to throw up. “Stop coming in my room. I’m seventeen. I have a right to some privacy.”

“Privacy? So you can bring boys up here to do God knows what? Like that Grant kid who’s been sniffing around you. He only wants one thing from you, you know. Once you give it to him, you won’t see him again.”

She’d already given Jackson everything she could, and he still loved her. “I’ve never had a boy in my room.” The thought made her shudder. What she and Jackson had was magical. Beautiful. She wouldn’t dirty it by bringing him into this house.

“Why aren’t you downstairs?” he said, changing tactics. “It’s almost time for dinner.”

“I was busy. Working.”

“On that amateurish junk of yours? You think someone is going to be interested in buying that?”

“Yes, Dad. I do.” She was good. Her art teacher had told her so. Her friends all wanted her to make jewelry for them. Even her sisters liked it.

“Stop wasting your time, Fiona. You’ll start college at Collier next year and find a real career. Maybe you’ll become an English professor, like me.”

“I hate English,” she said. If he’d been a zoology professor, she’d have hated animals. “I’m getting out of this house as soon as I can.”

“You’re going to leave me alone?” His mouth twisted. “You’re an ungrateful brat, just like your sisters. You’ll be begging me to take you back in a month. Maybe less.” He looked at the desk she’d made into a workbench. “You can’t keep this junk in your room. That soldering iron is dangerous. I’m putting all of it in the garage tomorrow.”

He stormed out into the hall, and she slammed the door behind him. Then she defiantly pushed the lock into place. “Fine!” she shouted. “I’ll make a studio in the garage.”

She waited for him to return, but he must not have heard her clearly, because he continued down the stairs.

Five hours later, after she heard her father snoring in his bedroom, she raised the blind and put a candle in her window. When a spray of tiny pebbles hit the porch roof beneath her, she blew out the candle, opened the window and climbed onto the roof.

Jackson was waiting when she reached the end of the trellis, and he caught her when she let go. Reaching up to throw her arms around his neck, she kissed him wildly. “You came.”

“Of course I did. I saw the candle.” He set her on the ground and took her hand. “I’ll always be here when you need me.”

She grabbed his T-shirt in both fists. “You think my jewelry is good, don’t you?”

“Your jewelry is great,” he said. “You’re going to be a famous jewelry designer.” He kissed her again. “You’re going to put this town on the map. Everyone will know about Fiona McInnes in Spruce Lake, Wisconsin.”

No! She wanted to be the famous Fiona McInnes in New York. The darkness hid the expression in his blue eyes and she tightened her grip on his shirt. Finally she let him go, smoothing out the worn fabric. They would work it out. She loved Jackson. He loved her. They’d be together forever.

“Let’s go,” she said, tugging on his hand. “I don’t want to waste any time.”

CHAPTER ONE

“THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE.” Fiona jumped up from the desk in her father’s home office and paced into the hall as she listened to the woman, one of the wholesalers who supplied her with silver and gemstones, on the other end of the phone. “There’s been a mistake, Shelby.”

“Maybe, but the check bounced. Sorry, Fiona. I can’t send out this order until the bad check is cleared. I called Barb, but I couldn’t get hold of her.”

There was plenty of money in her business account to pay for the order of silver wire and lapis. Fiona took a deep breath. “Did you call Barb during the day?” Barb Lockley, Fiona’s business manager, worked out of her apartment and she was meticulous about being available during business hours.

“Of course I did. I called several times but she didn’t answer.”

“There’s been a mix-up somewhere, Shelby,” Fiona answered, her mind flying in ten directions. “Can I give you my personal credit card number until I straighten it out?”

“Sure.” Shelby cleared her throat. “It’ll have to be for both orders, though. When we get a bounced check, we need payment in advance for future orders.”

“All right.” It would put her perilously close to the limit of her credit card, but after she got hold of Barb, she’d go online and transfer the money to pay the bill. “Hold on a second while I get the card.”

A few minutes later, Fiona tucked her credit card back in her wallet and paced the office as she punched in the number for her business manager. “Damn it!” This was what happened when you let personal stuff interfere with your business. She and her sisters had to finish dealing with this horrible house. And they needed to do it right away. She had to focus on her upcoming show. The Clybourne Gallery had a lot of influence in the art world.

The phone rang and Fiona settled on the edge of the desk. But she got a recorded statement that the number had been disconnected.

“What?” She stared at the phone, unable to believe what she’d heard. Maybe she’d pressed the wrong speed dial. Scrolling through her contacts, she dialed Barb’s number. Same message.

Alarmed now, she phoned her agent. As she waited for him to answer, she sank into the old desk chair and accessed her business account on the computer. “David. Thank God. How come Barb’s phone number is disconnected? What’s going on?”

“I’ve been meaning to call you, Fiona,” he said. “Barb seems to have disappeared. And your accountant called yesterday because she couldn’t get hold of you. It looks as if Barb emptied the business account before she took off.”

“What? Barb’s gone? With my money?” She stood so quickly that the chair banged into the wall. “Why didn’t you call me right away?”

“I’ve been trying to find her,” he said impatiently. “I didn’t see any reason to worry you until I figured out what was going on.”

“No reason to worry me? This is my business, David. Have you forgotten that?”

“You haven’t been acting like you cared about it,” he shot back. “You’ve been out there in Hicksville for the past five months. I’ve begged you to come home and take care of your business, but you’ve always had an excuse.”

“I have family obligations.” She kicked her father’s heavy walnut desk. “Apparently that means it’s all right for you to forget I exist and my business manager to steal my money and disappear.”

“I got you the gig at the Clybourne Gallery, didn’t I?”

“I contacted Jules at the Clybourne,” Fiona said.

“And I nailed it down. That’s a huge step for your career, Fiona. But are you in New York, working on your pieces for the show? No. I haven’t seen anything new from you since you’ve been in that godforsaken town.” Fiona heard paper shuffling over the phone. “Sorry, babe, but with no new designs, your stuff has become stale. Orders are down. There’s no buzz anymore.”

“I’m working on pieces for the show,” Fiona said, clutching the phone so tightly her hand hurt. “And when I talked about trying some different things, you said, and I quote, ‘Don’t worry, babe. Things are going great. Don’t rock the boat.’”

“Guess I was wrong,” David answered.

Fiona heard the faint clacking of a keyboard through the phone.

“Get off the computer,” she said sharply. “You’re telling me my career is in the toilet and you’re e-mailing someone else at the same time?”

“You’re not my only client, Fiona,” he said. “And some of them actually care about their careers.”

His words terrified and enraged her. “Did you call the police about Barb?”

“Not yet. I keep telling myself there’s an innocent explanation.”

“David, the woman’s phone is disconnected and there’s no money in my business account.” She’d wanted a well-known agent, someone with important clients in the art world. But she was a small fish in David’s big pond. The realization tasted bitter in her mouth. “I thought you were on my side. But you’re only on my side when the money is flowing your way. Once there’s a problem, it’s another story, isn’t it?”

“Barb works for you,” he said. “Not me. You should have been paying more attention to your career. Get your ass to New York, Fiona.”

“I can’t right now. I’m watching my nephew while my sister’s on her honeymoon.”

“Aren’t you the little Suzy Homemaker?”

“David, I expect you to do something about this. Call me by the end of the day, or you’re fired.” She snapped her phone shut.

As she stared at her bank statement showing that the balance in her business account was zero, she opened the phone again and called the police in Philadelphia, where Barb lived. “We’ll put someone on it, ma’am,” the bored-sounding officer said. “Give me your phone number, and we’ll let you know if we find anything.”

Translation—she wouldn’t be hearing from the police anytime soon. “Thank you, Officer,” she said.

Fiona stared out the window, numb. The impatiens she’d planted in the spring were in full bloom, a thick row of orange, pink and purple blossoms across the front of the house. The forsythia bushes she’d pruned were dense and bright green, clearly responding to her care. It was beautiful outside.

And her world was falling apart.

She swiveled away from the window and caught sight of the massive picture of her father leaning against the wall. They’d promised it to the college, but had stuck it in here, out of the way. He seemed to be watching her with that knowing sneer.

A very familiar sneer. The one he usually wore when he talked about her work.

“Why are you bothering with those little trinkets, Fiona? You’re wasting your time.”

“You’ll never make a living designing jewelry.”

“What are you doing out here? Playing with your silly beads again? Leaving me to cope with everything alone?”

“You’re happy now, aren’t you?” she said to the picture. “I bet you wish you were here so you could say I told you so. So you could tell me how stupid I’ve been, staying in Spruce Lake to take care of your business and neglecting my own. Oh, but wait. There was never any business more important than yours, was there?”

A hidden place inside Fiona burst open, and rage, pain and fear spilled out in a toxic tide. She picked up the Professor of the Year award sitting on her father’s desk and hurled it at the painting. It tore through the canvas, obliterating the bottom of her father’s head. But his eyes still stared at her.

“Damn you! You’re dead and buried. Rotting in the ground. Get out of my life!” She grabbed one of his other Professor of the Year awards from the bureau and threw it at the picture, destroying the rest of her father’s head. Then she smashed the third one repeatedly, until it broke into splinters of glass that went flying across the room.

“Professor of the year,” she cried. “What did they know? You were a selfish, horrible man. We hated you. You should have died in that car crash. Not Mom. But we were stuck with you.”

Fiona kicked the last box of her father’s papers repeatedly, yellowing sheets cascading onto the floor. “You thought you were so important. I’m going to burn your precious papers.”

She swept up an armful and stuffed them into the fireplace. Falling to her knees on the cold tile in front of the hearth, she grabbed handful after handful, stuffing them in until the only ones left were out of her reach.

A drop of moisture hit her hand, then another. Where was the water coming from? She looked down at her hands. She was crying.

She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to stop the tears. “I’m not crying for you, old man,” she spat at the now-faceless picture. “I never cried when you died. You want to know what I did? I danced all night.”

She staggered to her feet, looking for something else of her father’s. Something she could destroy. Instead, she saw a man leaning against the doorway.

Even through the blur of her tears she recognized him. Jackson Grant. How long had he been standing there?

She froze, staring at his expressionless face for an agonizingly long moment. Then she stumbled backward, grabbing for the edge of the desk. “Jackson. Where did you come from? What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Fiona.” His voice was as unreadable as his face. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She knuckled away the last of her tears.

He looked at the torn picture against the wall. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” His hair was a darker blond and longer than she remembered. It curled above his collar, shaggy, as if he’d cut it himself. His shoulders were broad beneath the black T-shirt he wore, and his arms were ropy with muscle. Not the scrawny twenty-two-year-old she remembered.

Jackson had grown up.

And after she’d gone out of her way to avoid him in the five months she’d been in Spruce Lake, he’d walked in on her at the worst possible moment. A witness to her humiliation. “What can I do for you?”

“Is that how you’re going to play it? Pretending it didn’t happen?” He nodded toward the papers in the fireplace, the broken glass on the floor, the ruined picture. “That was always your style.”

“This isn’t a good time for me, Jackson.” He was the last person in the world she needed to see right now. She was shaky and drained. Empty. She wanted to curl up in a ball, bury her head behind her arms and block out everything about this house. This town. Her life.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, nodding at her arm.

A smear of blood covered her lower left arm, and a wide trickle slid sluggishly toward her wrist, where it dripped onto the floor. “I didn’t see that.” As she stared at it, her arm began to sting.

“Sit down.” Jackson moved into the room and pushed her into the desk chair. “Stay there.”

He jogged up the stairs. She heard him rummaging in the bathroom, and moments later he returned with bandages and gauze and a bottle of Betadine.

“Let me see.”

She kept her arm close to her body. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Easier for someone else to.” He dropped onto the desk and grabbed her hand. “I don’t have time to play games,” he said impatiently.